Not the familiar, sharp scent of my own nitroglycerin sweat, or the sterile, clean smell of the U.A. gym. It’s something softer. Vanilla. Fruity shampoo. It’s wrong.

The second thing I notice is the weight. Or rather, the lack of it. My shoulders feel lighter, my center of gravity is off. My hands, when I force my eyes to look down, are smaller. Paler. Nails neatly trimmed, not scarred and calloused.

These are not my hands.

I’m sitting on the floor of Gym Gamma, back against a cement pillar Cementoss must have left up. My head is pounding. The last thing I remember is a flash of pink light, a kid from General Studies panicking during a joint training exercise, their Quirk going haywire. It hit me. It hit you.

And now I’m in your body.

Your head—my head—snaps up. Red eyes, wide with a horror that mirrors my own, lock onto me.

Across the gym, you’re struggling to your feet in my body, movements clumsy and oversized. You look down at yourself, at the black tank top and gym shorts, then back at me.

The gym doors burst open.